


i'll hover like refrain

by Theboys



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, Military Background, Summer Romance, Underage Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-25 00:12:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10752684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: jared moves to blairsville, georgia at the start of summer, and meets his somebody.





	i'll hover like refrain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hellhoundsprey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/gifts).



> hey, sweetheart. i wrote this on faith and no sleep, twelve straight because i needed it off my chest and in yours.  
> this be some fucked up shit. this is my response to whatever filth you give me for soft!daddy. i love you almost as much as jared loves jensen in this fic.
> 
> ADDENDUM: y'all. there are like, three major tags i haven't warned for, bc, MAJOR spoilers, and i can't do that (in all good conscience). that withstanding, hop on over to my tumblr (brosamigos) or my twitter (same handle) if you just NEED these three tags. i promise, it's not a ploy, i just would rather tell you individually than have them all laid bare.

They move to Blairsville, Georgia in the dead of summer. It’s only mid-May and they’re still going to need to figure out the school system and his schedule for next year.

He’s spent the last year clawing his way to the top of his class back in Germany, shuddering his way out of year ten there, for his junior year here.

It’s not gonna be any slower at Union County High, he figures, did his research after his mother did her own, and he asks his father in low tones why she can’t just cut him a break.

His father eyes him, speculative, and there’s only a hint of the grin Jared doesn’t often see anymore.

“Well, we’re all on a break now, huh, son?” he quips; it’s an almost-joke so Jared supplies a half-laugh and glances down at where his father’s leg is taped together, a hodge-podge of goodbyes scrawled across plaster.

“It’ll heal faster if you sat down every once in awhile,” Jared supplies unhelpfully, and his father cracks a real smile this time, reaches the tilt of his eyes.

“You sound like her, now,” he grumbles, but he takes a seat and Jared wonders what’s he’s supposed to do in a town of approximately 700 people.

-

The neighbors come over two days after the boxes are moved in, sitting haphazardly in what his mother will decorate as the dining room.

He doesn’t get it; they’re only staying up until Dad heals, and for once, he and the med doc were on the same page--just a flesh wound, he’ll be fine if he can manage to stay off the damn thing--and Jared doesn’t have any, like, posters to unpack.

He’s been listening almost exclusively to Meteora; the soundtrack forms the base behind his heartbeat and every summer-flinch of the sun.

His mother reaches up to pop him on the neck, almost on tiptoes, like she’s remained stunted while he keeps moving further and further away.

It leaves that hot coil of something in his stomach, hard like a knot, and he tugs his earbuds out.

“Yes ma’am?” he says politely, listens for his father’s approving rumble.

“This is my youngest,” his mother is saying, hands on her hips, hair tied back in a bun underneath one of Dad’s older bandanas.

“His brother Jeff is stationed in Latvia right now,” she says, offhand, and Jared gets a good look at the woman in their doorway.

She’s got a clean smile, teeth whitened, and she looks kind, but firm. The type to allow you a cookie before dinner, but only the one.

“Oh!” she replies, and Jared hides his smile behind his hand. There’s never a right thing to say when learning someone is stationed overseas, and there’s also never a good time to break out into the Star Spangled Banner, either.

His mother waves her hand, accustomed. “Military brats, the both of them.” She nudges Jared’s hip with her own, but the bones settles somewhere far south of her intent, brushing against his quad.

“Are y’all settled in for the long haul, then?” the blonde woman asks, oven mitts hanging from her right hand; she must’ve brought them dinner.

His mother shakes her head, more laughter than anything else.

“God, no. Not until Gerry’s done.” Her brow furrows with the thought, _where is my husband_ , and she leaves Jared alone at the door, hollering for his dad not to take any unnecessary steps on the damn leg, and would he come meet the neighbors, already?

Jared’s accustomed to strangers, in the business of them, actually, and he leans his own hip against the doorjamb, squints down into her face.

“I’m Mrs. Ackles,” she supplies, smiling.

“I’m Jared,” he says, sticks out a slightly sweaty palm for her to shake.

“I’m sorry if I’m gross,” he says, motions toward the clutter of the house, “I’ve been moving all morning.”

She shakes his hand decisively, like it doesn’t bother her one bit. He likes that.

“I have a son,” she says carefully, shrugging. Her eyes light up afterwards, and Jared can already feel it--in this too-small town, without the commissary and the police and the presence of a nation at his back--they’re gonna lump him together with a nobody from this nowhere stretch of land.

He’s not angry. He’s not. The sun’s still beating warm on his head when he asks for her son’s name.

-

Jared’s not usually wrong.

He doesn’t often have the opportunity to be, there a few constants in his life that he can depend on.

He’ll not remain in any place longer than a year, and usually far less than that sum. His mother will, unceasingly, unpack and reset life, despite the futility.

He’ll go months on end without seeing his father, late night Skype calls, letters to keep, sometimes nothing at all.

And later on, Jeff:, worse at communication, shoddy handwriting at best.

Jared saves each piece of unlined paper, staples them inside a bound journal he found when they moved from Chile back in sixth grade.

There are only seven in total, but Jeff’s only been gone eight months now. He can always send more.

He’s pushing the journal back underneath the folded set of whites in his dresser when there’s a tentative tap at the door.

They live a little out of the way, two-story with wraparound, age sealed into the cotton-heat of the house.

They’re surrounded by trees and his mother sighs heavily and whispers to Jared that this is a place she could learn to _love._

Like it would have something to give back to her. Jared faces the ceiling for a second before he jogs down the ten steps from bedroom to foyer.

His mother is driving his father to Union General for a routine check-up, and it’s a trip they’re gonna have to make more often than not.

Jared needs his license transferred to the States; he just passed over in Germany and he’s wondering who to ask about the DMV when he opens the door without looking.

His knee pops sympathetically, and he makes the mistake of looking eye level to meet whomever is visiting.

He’s as yet unused to this last growth spurt, which has left him sitting at 6’4, still shorter than Jeff, by the last count.

He makes a mental note to email his brother about that, and ducks so that he can make out what’s under blond.

The head tips back of its own accord, and Jared spares a second to realize that he’s been wrong about _everything._

-

Jensen Ackles is a somebody.

The somebody.

There’s no use lying about it. Jared’s mouth dries up of its own accord and Jared could pick the boy out of a lineup, notwithstanding that he looks just like his mother.

“My Mama says I should come’n meet you,” he says quietly, finally makes eye contact and pales so suddenly that Jared’s now privy to the dusting of freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose.

“I’m Jensen,” he says, sticks out one shockingly pale palm, bird’s wrist connected to skin, and Jared engulfs it, laces his whole, big hand over that small one.

It does something low-dark and nasty and Jared knows exactly what’s going on but he doesn’t quite have the necessary mental faculties left to deal with it.

Jensen’s looking at the splay of brown over white, and Jared withdraws reluctantly, allows the world to shudder back on its axis.

“Jared,” he croaks, parched. “I’m starting at Union in the fall,” he says, mostly for something to say. “I’ll be a junior,” he adds, and Jensen nods carefully at all facts.

“Sophomore,” Jensen says, ears blushed pink. Jared frowns quickly before he erases it. They look about the same age. Jensen’s clearly embarrassed about it, so Jared doesn’t pry.

“Gonna show me around?” Jared attempts, wants Jensen to look up again, he didn’t even get to see his eyes--

“It’s not a very big school,” Jensen says quietly, wrings both hands together until they’re blanched of color, milk-bone.

“Well, yeah, I figured, what with the town being almost dead and all,” Jared teases, and Jensen’s neck snaps up, affronted.

“It’s not _dead,_ ” he retorts, “there are lots of things to do around here. Places.” Jensen’s speech ebbs as quickly as it began, but now he’s got living color in his face, and his eyes are _green._ They’re so green they’re unnerving, and Jared’s never seen the like.

“Then you’ll show me around school and the town.” Jensen stiffens, body bowed, and Jared backtracks. “Please,” he adds, plaintive.

“I don’t know anyone around here,” he says, and Jensen nods, to himself, like Jared’s not in the room.

“Alright,” he says, and he doesn’t meet Jared’s eyes again when he turns to leave.

They’ve been standing at the front door the entire time and all the flies have come to roost.

-

Jared takes it upon himself to bring the lasagna dish back to the Ackles, mostly because he didn’t get Jensen’s number and he’s going to be with that boy every second of this summer, barring hell or high water.

The pan is glass, warm under hot palms. He could swear that it’s heating up underneath the blare of the sun, and he bounces it from left to right.

He stops when he’s about halfway there, not keen on shattering the thing on sand and gravel.

He wishes he could drive, even though his father has been grumbling about all the hell this kind of road puts on the undercarriage of the Jeep.

It’s about one and half clicks west, and if it’s already hot this early in the morning it can’t get better from here.

His hair is getting long again, so long that his dad’s gonna force him to have it cut once he remembers that he’s not set to get shipped out anytime soon.

It’s unruly, and normally, that rubs him the wrong way, but he likes the swish of it in his eyes. He likes hands in it, strands come undone.

Right now, it’s just hot, though, so he ties it into a knot at the top of his head and carries on, big feet sticking to socks and Nike trainers, nothing but sweat and dirt.

When he finally rings the doorbell the collar of his shirt is soaked and he can’t imagine his face looks much better.

A man he doesn’t recognize smiles up at him, thrill in his gut about being taller than an adult makes itself known, and the man’s face breaks wide.

His teeth are shiny and close-set, just like Jensen’s Mama.

“Mr. Ackles?” he says tentatively, and the broad man laughs like it’s just the funniest mistake Jared’s ever made.

“That’d make a pretty scene in court, wouldn’t it?” he guffaws, and Jared smiles reluctantly; the laughter going a long way to soothe his nerves.

“I’m her brother,” he says, once he’s wiped away enough of his tears. Jared squints at him now, takes in the stature, maybe six even, sandy-colored Jensen-hair.

“Matthew Herring, but you can call me Matt.” The man pauses, as if in thought. “Or, Uncle Matt, if your mother’s big on manners.”

Jared fiddles with the rapidly cooling fabric of his shirt.

“Huh,” he says, “why do you say that?” Matt gestures to him, one eyebrow raised. Jared looks down on himself, collared polo (slightly damp) and khakis. He’s in high-tops because he knew he’d be walking and he wants to apologize for how disheveled he looks but Matt’s already laughing again.

“No teenager walks around like that if he can help it,” he says between huffs of air, claps Jared on the back, no harm, no foul.

“You come to see Jensen?” he says, head tilted in question.

Jared hands him the pan--Matt winces--it is hot-- and nods. “I don’t know anyone from around here yet, and he said he’d show me the town.”

Matt grins, tucks glass underneath one muscular arm.

“Not much to show,” he stage-whispers, “but don’t go telling him that.”

Jared’s eyes crinkle up and he’s about to reply when Matt twists his torso halfway, bellows upstairs. “Ross! Ross, you got a visitor, son!”

Jared spares a second to be confused about the name, but Jensen’s coming, quick, from the sounds of it, and his tousled hair peeks around the corner, adorably ruffled.

“C-coming,” he stutters, like he didn’t think Jared would actually find his way to the house, shoulder his way into Jensen’s life.

He disappears again and Matt wanders off, muttering about where his sister keeps the pots and pans.

Jensen is fully dressed when he emerges, no less than two minutes later, and he’s flushed, like he’s in an unfathomable hurry.

“No rush, man,” Jared says, fingers sticky. He wants an arm around that waist, drag Jensen tucked up into his side.

Jensen flushes again, runs so hot that Jared follows the line of strawberry down the cream of his neck and chubs right up in those oppressively hot shorts.

Jensen’s in basketball shorts and a t-shirt, nondescript except for some sort of design Jared can’t make out from this angle.

Jensen leads the way out, closes the door behind them both and locks it, jiggles once for good measure. Jared’s unaware of how close he’s looming until Jensen turns around, eyes big and startled in his face.

“H-hey,” Jensen says, squirms slightly under the proximity. Doesn’t say anything else until Jared picks up the hint somewhere in his addled mind and gives the guy breathing room.

“Hot,” Jared says dismissively, as if that explains it. He follows Jensen down the stairs and falls into step with him, moderating his longer stride to match Jensen’s.

Jensen is a little thing. Smaller than Jared first realized. The men in his family have always grown big and they’ve grown fast, so Jared thinks maybe Jensen’s got a few inches left.

He comes up to Jared’s shoulder, if even that, can’t tell if he’s being generous because Jensen is fairly running next to him, trying to keep up.

It’s Jared’s turn to blush, and he does so, deep and embarrassed.

“Don’t let me do that,” he says, and Jensen looks up, pants openmouthed. Jared’s dick twitches valiantly and he resists the urge to pat it down.

“Do what?” Jensen asks, sheen of sweat sitting high on his brow. “Walk?”

He’s teasing, just a little, and Jared throws caution to the wind, slings one heavy arm across shoulders that don’t look wide enough to carry it.

Jensen stiffens, just for a second, and then relaxes into it, even though he can’t really turn to look at Jared because of the obstruction.

Jared likes it better like this anyway, gets to study Jensen’s profile with abandon, the sharp hawk of his nose, defined jawline.

He’s got freckles on his eyelids, in between his lashes. Jared hates himself, just a little.

“Seriously, though,” Jared says, when the silence has gone on too long and Jensen grows a little cold under his hand, “I walk fast. If you need me to slow down, it’s fine.”

Jensen shrugs.

“For real, man. Unless you wanna all-out sprint,” Jared says, “in which case, we should just sign up for a marathon.”

Jensen snorts, quiet and short, and Jared’s heart makes a painful dip in his chest.

“Your Uncle seems nice,” Jared offers, when Jensen doesn’t make anymore of an attempt at conversation.

It’s hard to walk this way; Jensen’s maybe 5’9 on a good day and Jared’s awkwardly draped over him, but Jensen’s not put up a fuss so Jared goes with it, clings.

Jensen smiles at the mention, bright and beatific into Jared’s eyes. “He’s great. Uncle Matt’s great. He came to live with us about two years ago, now.” Jensen’s breath dies at the end of the sentence and Jared pulls back.

“Why’s he call you Ross?” Jared says, after another not-uncomfortable silence.

Jensen’s mouth tips up, sardonic in a way that doesn’t suit him. “He used to call me JR. They all did, when I was little.”

It’s getting dark overhead, speckling of stars he won’t be able to see if they make it to the heart of town.

Jared can just see Orion’s belt if he squints, and Jensen comes to a standstill beside him. “It’s just him that calls me Ross,” Jensen confides, mellow.

Jared wonders what would happen if he were to reach out for Jensen’s hand.

They never make it anywhere.

-

It’s not a thing.

It’s becoming _some_ thing, but Jared refuses to name it and Jensen would balk like a skittish horse if he broached it.

Jeff sends him two letters in one week, turns out the first was delayed and the second trundled in alongside.

His father watches CNN on a loop and takes late night--early morning in Germany--calls when his mother is asleep and Jared should be doing the same.

Jeff is in Latvia.

It’s a Baltic State, and, if the news reports are correct and Russia decides to act preemptively, this will be where the first shots are fired.

Jared reads the letter once with his mother and once by himself.

He doesn’t ask to see theirs.

He’s saving the second one for later, maybe, but he and Jensen are supposed to hang out this afternoon after Jensen finishes stabling the horses at the ranch clear on the opposite side of town.

His father is hinting that he take a job--he always had one back at base and idle hands will eat you alive, boy.

Jared’s not keen on horses, and not because he’s afraid of a little hard work.

Jensen comes calling at half past three, just like always, and even if it’s only been three weeks, Jared likes that Jensen’s as much of a sucker for routine as Jared is.

Jensen looks as he always does, freshly scrubbed pink, hair still damp around the edges. He’s moving like every part of his body is one big sore, and Jared aches.

“You ready?” Jensen asks, breathless in a way Jared wants to replicate.

Jensen’s not a talker but he grabs Jared by the wrist, and his fingers don’t fully close around the arch of bone.

Jared throws his head back, breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

“You haven’t been to--we haven’t gone to the Lake yet. It’s called Lake Nottely and if we hurry we can beat the tourists. We probably should’ve left sooner. I’m sorry about that. We should’ve left this morning.” Jensen comes to a complete halt, and Jared smacks into his spine, almost knocking Jensen down onto gravel.

Jared reaches out instantly, steadies him, wraps too-hot hands around the cut of his waist.

“Are you listening?” Jensen says, Adam’s apple bobbing as he stretches back to meet Jared’s eyes. “I said I was sorry.”

Jared squints, drops his hands slowly. Jensen shivers. “Why are you sorry?” Jared asks, confused.

“We should’ve left early to get a head start. To the Lake,” Jensen adds, when Jared looks truly lost. “Oh, the fucking _lake_ ,” Jared says, laughs, and Jensen’s body goes taut, motionless.

Jared’s laughter peters out and Jensen’s still standing in front of him, eyes on the ground.

There’s a line of dirt he missed on his neck. Small patch. Almost unnoticeable.

Jared dips his thumb against it and Jensen’s neck tilts, so pliant. Jared’s can hear his heart through his dick, rough and tumble pattern of sound.

“You shouldn’t be sorry,” Jared whispers. Jensen nods, back in motion, vigorous.

“I wanted to take you out on the boat. Dad keeps one there. It’s not. It’s not very big, or fast, or anything, but i-it could be cool.” Jensen pauses for air. “If you wanted.”

Sweetheart, Jared wants to say, curled up on the tip of his tongue and he doesn’t know what he doesn’t know and the moment is lost, like the rest.

“You wanna go tomorrow, then?” Jared smiles to make up for the break in time. “You don’t work tomorrow. I promise, I’ll even get up early.”

Jensen smiles, broadly, every last one of those porcelain teeth on display. “You promise?”

Realistically, what’s happening to Jared’s heart can’t be healthy.

“Of course,” he says, pretends to be affronted. “Don’t I always keep my word?”

Jensen shrugs, fake, half-smirk just for Jared’s benefit.

Jared takes a step forward, and Jeff’s letter crinkles in his pocket, loud and unopened.

Jensen follows the sound and raises an eyebrow, waiting. “Jeff sent a letter,” Jared replies, and Jensen nods, careful.

“Do you. You want me to go home so you can read it?” Jensen’s voice is vulnerable but firm, and Jared thinks of Mrs. Ackles for just a second.

“Nah,” Jared says, hushed. “Just wanna read it somewhere quiet.”

Jensen nods at that, just a second, and then he reattaches himself to Jared’s arm.

“C’mon, then. Before it gets too dark,” Jensen says, in a hurry all over again.

He doesn’t know where they’re going, doesn’t much care so long as Jensen keeps up with that steady pressure to his wrist, damp and fleeting.

He’s not sure what to make of it when they burst into a clearing, a thirty minute walk in which Jared stared real hard at the back of Jensen’s head.

It’s not overly small, but Jared can see how it’d be missed, tucked in the back away from thoroughfares. There’s a small pool in the center of moss-green grass, probably just shallow enough to wade in.

Jensen releases him, hauls in a deep breath.

“About. A-about a mile or so away they have the County fair. In October.” Jensen’s focused on the tops of his shoes like they’re the only things that matter. “That’s how.” Jensen waves his hand around like his throat’s just that thick.

“That’s how I found this place.” Jensen drops to the ground, so abrupt that Jared follows suit, crawls the scant feet needed to end up next to him.

“It’s hot at the fair. An’ it’s loud,” Jensen says, falls back so he’s pressed spine to grass. It’s still bright out. It’ll be bright until eight, and even then, that’s just barely dusk.

“My mom made us all go. Me, Uncle Matt and Daddy.” Jensen squints into the sun. “You ever just. You wanna just be by yourself, sometimes? Like. Just bein’ quiet.”

Jensen’s ears are flooded with warmth and Jared can’t stand it, not another second because it might be the only second he’s got the guts.

“Baby,” he whispers, tongue curling unfamiliar, didn’t mean to say it, always meant to have it, and Jensen’s eyes flutter open just in time for Jared to prop himself up on one elbow, sink his mouth low to close over Jensen’s.

Jensen makes a startled, wounded noise, like he’s in so much pain, Jared almost stops before they’ve begun.

Jared breaks the connection and Jensen arches up, eyes pooled over--is he crying--and then they’re intertwined again, Jensen’s lips parting with just enough grace to let his tongue snake through, tentative and hushed.

“You ever--” Jared breaks apart to say, but Jensen’s shaking his head in grass and dirt, lips already raw.

“Not ever,” Jensen replies, heaving for air. “I never. I don’t know how,” he bites out, but then his little chest twists, vulnerable, and Jared presses one quivering palm to Jensen’s sternum because he’s so hard he’s gonna go blind with it.

Jensen’s shaking underneath him, body wound tight, and he’s definitely crying, glass pooled at the corners of his lids.

“Ah, Jesus. Jesus, baby, why’re--huh, stop that, why’re you crying, huh?” Jared blubbers, young and stupid and foolish.

“Am not,” Jensen chokes out, still wet around the face, and Jared uses both thumbs to wipe it all away as fast as Jensen can make it.

“Sweetheart, stop crying. C’mon, will you try? Just for a second. Huh?”

Jensen’s cries ratchet up higher and now Jared’s panicking.

“M’fine, I’m fine,” Jensen wheezes, “please. Please.” He doesn’t get further than that, and Jared rearranges them, manhandles Jensen, docile as a child, until they’re both in a sitting position, Jensen cradled between the v of his legs.

Jensen rests on his chest, cheek to heartbeat, and Jared braces both of their weight on open palms against flat ground.

“You wanna hold it for me?” Jared asks, after a while, when Jensen’s caught his breath and Jared’s shirt is only damp instead of soaked.

Jensen nods, hair tickling Jared’s chin and there aren’t big enough words. Not really.

Jared holds them suspended while he uses his hands to pry the letter loose. His abdomen quivers from the strain and Jensen mewls, unintentional sound.

He hands Jensen the letter and Jensen straightens up enough to tear it open, hold it before Jared’s eyes.

_How much do you know about Latvia, Jay?_

_Don’t look at me like that. You love geography. I kept the map, by the way. I’m adding to it as I go, like you wanted._

_I made all my flags blue. The ones for dad are still red. It’s gonna be covered by the time we’re done, you think? What color are you thinking of making yours? Purple? Nah. Maybe green._

_I don’t know, man. Too much time on my hands if I’m already thinking two years in the future._

_Anyway. It’s hot as hell here. No action. I already told mom the same thing, don’t bother repeating it. They like cycling here. Lotta festivals._

_There’s not much to say, but there never is, huh? Write me back as soon as you get the chance. Also, if you were here, you’d love the shoreline. Even looking at it, feels like you’re already in it._

_Silver linings._

_Talk to you soon. Send dad my love, tell him to cool it on using that leg._

It reads like every other banal letter Jeff’s ever sent him, tempered with no-news and homesickness.

Jeff never used to sound lonely. Now he reads like all he’s got is himself. Jared’s itching for a pen, better with words than with his own mouth, but Jensen’s jittering under him again, this time in a panic, he can tell the difference.

“Jensen? Hey, hey, what’s the matter?” Jensen doesn’t answer, won’t move, and Jared twists his body around until Jensen’s just breathing into his neck, hot air and earth.

He smells like the sun.

-

Jensen’s at work and Jared’s mother is at the grocery store when his dad asks for a ride to Union General.

Matt dropped Jensen and Jared off at the DMV a week ago so Jared could get his international license transferred, and now he’s holding the shitty paper copy until they mail him the real deal.

“Won’t Mom wanna come,” Jared asks, but his dad side-eyes him and Jared raises his hands in false supplication.

“Fine! Fine, don’t yell at me when she calls us both, all pissed off.” His dad laughs, short, but real, and uses the cane they’ve provided to hobble his way to the passenger side.

Jared closes the door softly beside him and chases down a thrill at being behind the wheel of the Jeep.

Jared flexes his palms on the steering wheel for show and cuts a glance to his dad’s profile.

“Where to, Hoss?” Jared says, teasing. His father cuffs him against the back of the head, mild, for not addressing him as sir.

“Take 147,” he says, and Jared follows directions without comment.

Takes them thirty-five to get there, and that’s only because Jared is following the letter of the law for his father’s benefit.

He’s never seen his father’s PT before, quietly jolly man named Dr. Saunders-call-me-Hank.

“Well, Gerry, let’s see you put some weight on it,” Hank says, longsufferingly, and Jared could die of laughter right now.

His father is surprisingly nimble, thrusts his oak cane into Jared’s waiting hands and takes halting, but firm steps across the room.

Hank claps his hands, visibly delighted. “Great progress. Fantastic! And for such a high-velocity injury--” he babbles, but his dad’s eyes are bright, even as he leans on Hank’s arm in order to be escorted to the next room.

“Right! Right, then! You! Jared!” Hank calls without stopping, moderating his father’s steps. “Your dad is right on track! Doing well! Follow us, then!”

Jared cackles aloud this time, smacks the cane on the linoleum obnoxiously as he follows behind.

-

Jared goes to dinner at the Ackles’ residence when his parents are out on “date night,” and Jensen fairly begs, tips his warm little mouth close so that Jared can cover it with his own.

All they’ve done is kiss.

Honestly, as long as Jared’s allowed to jack off in the vicinity of Jensen, he thinks he could withstand not having everything else. Jensen throws both arms around Jared’s neck, arched up so that he’s almost _en pointe_ and Jared should not fall in love with the way Jensen’s scrabbling for purchase to remain upright.

They’re at Jared’s front window, and Jared just. Hauls him up, and Jensen goes right with it, tangles those smooth, slender legs around Jared’s waist so he can move them both out of sight.

Jensen’s undulating, sinuous and sharp, and when he breaks away to catch Jensen’s eyes, there’s something feral in them, long and dark and loud.

Jared’s gonna come in his pants.

“C’mon,” Jensen huffs, “dinner’s in an hour,” he adds. “Make me come, huh? Make me take it.”

Jared shivers at the words, the sound, the crooked tilt as they fall out of Jensen’s mouth, and then he’s coming, dick jerked against denim, and Jensen’s chasing his own release, comes right against the shivering muscles of Jared’s belly.

Jensen makes a strangled sound, hushed, whispers _Jared, Jared, Jared, please, oh, please_ right into his sternum and his whole body sags in Jared’s arms.

“You’re right here, baby,” he murmurs, soft nothing into Jensen’s hair. He doesn’t know who he is anymore.

Jensen’s arms are so tight around his neck, and Jared doesn’t know how to set him down.

“Did. Should I not have,” Jensen says, muffled and soft, a sigh.

“It wasn’t you,” Jared says, presses one palm to the back of Jensen’s skull just so he can keep his forehead pressed against Jared’s throat.

He’s bracing their combined weight against the wall adjacent to the kitchen, and he knows if he moves one step, they’ll go down in a heap.

“You’re it,” Jared says dumbly, helplessly, and Jensen makes a high-pitched sound and they end up falling anyway.

-

Dinner is. Difficult.

That’s not to say the food isn’t great (it is). But Jared meets Mr. Ackles for the first time since this all began.

Dinner is flank steak. It falls right apart on Jared’s fork, and even if Jared is stuck between Uncle Matt and Jensen, and right at Mr. Ackles’ elbow, it’s pretty good.

Mr. Ackles is nothing like his wife, or his son, and, understandably, his brother-in-law. There’s a tension that’s present that isn’t alive when he’s not around, and Jensen’s body is angled slightly away from his father’s.

“JR,” his mother says, soft, like she doesn’t mean for the patriarch to hear. “Eat up. It’s one of your favorites.” Her smile is brittle, and she nods at Jared, as if in apology, he’s not sure.

“Where you from, Jared?” Mr. Ackles booms, and Jared’s knee bounces and slaps the underside of the table.

Matt smiles helpfully, pats his thigh once in solidarity and leans down on his other side to motion to Jensen’s meal. Jared keeps trying to catch his eye but he’s not responding to any of them.

“Here and there, sir,” Jared says, ingrained response. He sits up straighter, puts his fork down. It takes his remaining willpower to make eye contact, but he does so regardless.

Mr. Ackles’ hands are steepled underneath his chin, and his food looks virtually untouched.

There are lines around his mouth and his hair is silver, streaked through. He was blond underneath that, once.

“That’s not much of an answer.”

Mrs. Ackles looks chagrined and Jensen’s gripping the edge of his tablecloth in his fists. No one is feigning eating anymore.

“I was raised a military brat, sir,” Jared says, extra emphasis on the honorific that can’t go unnoticed. “I was born in Afghanistan. My father did two tours in the Middle East, Iraq and Kuwait, respectively.” Jared pauses for air, feels the burn of Jensen’s eyes.

“We moved from Kuwait when I was three. We were stationed across Europe most of that time, and I haven’t lived in the States for more than two years.” Jared inclines his head respectfully.

“My brother enlisted, almost a year ago, and he’s in Latvia right now. I’m sorry if I can’t give you a better idea of my background, but it’s all a little hard to pin down.” Jared knows the last was too much, but the man is sucking all of the energy out of the room by existing, and when he chances a look at Jensen, his eyes are blinking, rapid fire.

Matt is covering his mouth with the back of his palm.

“What are you doing in Georgia, then?” Mr. Ackles’ tone hasn’t changed, but he’s eyeing Jared with a sharper sort of interest than before.

“My father was shot in combat.” Jared reaches under the table, pats his own calf out of habit, even though they can’t see it.

“Flesh wound, to the calf muscle. He’s stateside for rehab.” Jared stabs at his steak, suddenly vicious. “My mom wanted somewhere quiet.”

Mr. Ackles’ knife is long and plaintive against his plate. No one else says a word.

-

Jared gets a job as a gas station attendant.

It’s not overly glamorous, but he’s no stranger to wearing an uncomfortable uniform, and he can sit motionless all day if need demands.

The hours suck. He gets up at the crack of dawn, but gets to be home by one, and Jensen’s usually out by three.

Matt picks Jensen up and brings him back, usually drops him off at home and then swings by to pick Jared up, because Jensen’s house is closer to all of the activities they usually do.

It’s especially shitty because they’re into the first week of August, and it’s _hot._ Sweltering, Georgia heat, thick and humid. It’s like a wet caress and Jared wants to start a shower and die in it.

Matt doesn’t swing by for him at the regular time, and he’s antsy, leg jittering against wood. There’s something cool Jensen was excited to show him, something in town, and Jared thinks he could convince his dad to let him borrow the Jeep with enough cajoling.

He texts Jensen with no response, and finally decides to bike there. Jensen likes riding on his handlebars, even if they’re careful to do it out of eyesight of Mr. Ackles.

Mrs. Ackles doesn’t seem to care one way or the other, cups Jared’s cheek in a surprisingly calloused palm and smiles.

Jared can’t meet the look head-on, and stops trying.

The bike ride is rough on his spokes and wheels, and he’s almost thrown onto gravel a couple of times.

He calls Jensen one-handed, three times, and they all go to voicemail.

Jared pedals faster.

He’s dramatic, when he finally arrives, hops off his bike so fast it topples over to land in the dirt, wheels still spinning.

He knocks on the door, full fist, ignores a doorbell, and when Matt answers, he looks uncharacteristically withdrawn.

Jared hasn’t thought of what to say.

“Where’s. You didn’t come,” he says, spastically. “Is Jensen okay?”

Matt smiles, doesn’t reach his eyes. “He’s fine. He could come down and _tell you himself_ ,” Matt says, yells the last part in an effort to help, shoulder half-lifted in a shrug. He adjusts his collar, runs one hand through sweaty hair.

“I--I’m fine, Jared,” Jensen calls, too-quiet, even if he is all the way upstairs. “Go back h--home. I’ll take you to Vogel tomorrow.”

“Has he been _crying?_ ” Jared demands, wild-eyed, young. Matt sighs, rubs his forehead. “He’s not talking to anyone. So we don’t know.” Matt pauses, feline grace. “Give him some space, maybe. Ross has always been real good at puttin’ himself back together.”

There’s a dull shine of amusement in the statement, like it’s two-toned, but Jared can’t even consider that when Jensen’s upstairs, alone, and crying. Won’t let Jared in.

He opens his mouth to scream, considers shoving past Matt for the room he’s never seen, but Matt can see his intent, nudges him to the door.

“Not today, Jared.” Matt’s firm, immovable, and Jared wonders if that’s an Ackles’ family trait. “You want a ride back?”

Jared shakes his head, hair flipping over and against his eyes.

He wants his Jensen, but that’s too childish, even for him.

Jared pedals back alone, texts Jensen _I’m sorry._

-

They don’t go to the Park the next day, nor the day after that. When he does see Jensen again, it’s been three days of petroleum, helping his father limp around on both feet when his mother isn’t looking.

Dr. Saunders likes for Jared to come--no offense, Mrs. P, but your son is quite a bit bigger than you--and it’s now Jared’s job to walk the length of their living room to kitchen, his father braced against his shoulder.

His father has an inch on him, shorter by two than Jeff, but Jared thinks he could keep going.

Jensen meets him outside his house after dinner, when Jared is dragging the trash to the curb. For a moment, Jared’s so angry he can barely speak. Radio silence for days and now this?

He gets a good look at Jensen under the porch light, and Jensen is--somehow--smaller than normal, arms curled in on himself.

His eyes are bruised and heavy-lidded, and Jared would bet money he hasn’t eaten since they last spoke.

He steps closer, out of his mind. “Baby. Would you. C’mere. C’mere, lemme, Jensen, please.”

His voice is low, too low for his parents to catch, and Jensen sways in on himself, lids fluttering not-quite shut.

Jared almost trips over his laces but he makes it to Jensen’s side in time for him to sag, soft and slight. Jared gets a better look at him then, the curvature of his neck, hidden by sleeves and collars.

There are smudges encircling it--thick and angry, and Jensen tugs himself upright like he remembers they’re visible, but it’s too fucking late now.

Jared can shoot three different kinds of guns, handled an AK once, memorably, and has been trained in Krav Maga since he was eight. It wouldn’t matter, not really, even if none of that was applicable, because Jensen’s covered in bruises and how could Jared not have _known_?

“Can we go?” Jensen says tiredly, one hand clasped around his neck but it’s futile because Jared’s seen everything now.

“Ride on the bars,” Jared commands, doesn’t want him walking that far.

It’s difficult, in the dark, and Jared has to keep one hand splayed on the dry-warmth of Jensen’s belly for balance, but Jensen makes a kind of animal-noise when they reach the meadow, and Jared thinks he was born for this exact second.

It’s not right, that he ends up carrying Jensen, laying him down at the foot of the pond like a corpse, but Jensen folds his hands over his chest and then turns on his side.

“Can you. Jared. Please. Hold m-me, for a s-second?” Jensen stutters his way through the question like Jared could refuse him anything, and that’s all he ever wanted to begin with.

Jared doesn’t speak for some time, but neither does Jensen, and when he finally sighs, Jensen tenses. “My dad’s in the military,” he begins, but Jensen squirms until his small face is caught in Jared’s collarbone.

“Please don’t. Please don’t,” Jensen repeats. Jared wants to scream. How can he expect him to not--to just stop and not look at it?

Jared’s fingers flit to ruined skin on accident, and Jensen arches into the touch before jerking away.

“Don’--don’t t-touch me t-there! I don’t. Don’t fucking t-touch it!” Jensen sounds hysterical, thrashes in Jared’s hold and he rocks them together, back and forth, until Jensen remembers how to breathe.

“I won’t,” Jared lies. “I won’t do anything,” he adds, and Jensen nods, hard.

It’s quiet again, after that, and Jared thinks Jensen might’ve fallen asleep, but, then, “I’m not an only child.”

Jared’s startled, hides it.

“Y--you’re not?” Jared asks.

“No,” Jensen says, small. “I’m the youngest. My older brother, Josh, was killed in a car accident two years ago.”

Jensen rushes the sentence out like cancer, and Jared’s arms tighten around Jensen, past the point of pain. Jensen mewls but snuggles closer, doesn’t ask him to _stop_ anymore.

“He was drunk. He wasn’t driving but one of his friends was supposed--she was the DD,” he sighs, like he’s been over it so many times before. “Only, she wasn’t so sober and they, all of ’em, ended up wrapped around a tree.”

Jensen makes himself even smaller, tries to crawl right up inside Jared’s body. Whole.

“Things got. Everything got shitty. U-Uncle Matt came because Dad wouldn’t--nobody could do anything, right? And he just put everything back together and we all s-started living again and he just. Stayed.” Jensen hauls in his air. “Mom’s okay. Better. But Dad.”

Jensen’s not all cried out, he finds, and Jared’s the most helpless he’s ever been. “I don’t think he’s ever gonna really see me. Not ever again,” Jensen says, almost indecipherable.

Jared doesn’t know what to say to that-- _what do you say to that._

But he hauls Jensen into the cradle of his legs, smothers his face with kisses, dips down and presses dry lips to Jensen’s throat.

It’s Jared’s turn to shake, and he does; he’s only been with three people his whole life, one girl and two guys, and none of them make anything he wants with Jensen any easier. Not one.

Jensen bares his neck, eyes blinking sightlessly, and Jared moves them so that Jensen’s legs are splayed open over Jared’s thighs.

He keeps one palm on Jensen’s neck and the other on the small of his back, just rubbing at the dip of skin there, and Jensen shifts forward on a sigh, both thin hands clutching the front of Jared’s t-shirt.

Jared bites him, savagely, can’t control the need, the violence in his teeth for the amount he’s not allowed to carry in his hands.

“Y--you, can’t,” Jensen breathes, moves his fingers to the top of Jared’s bowed head. “Gonna,” Jared says, hot, barely himself.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened,” Jared says, between nips, sucks, “but I’m not letting anyone hurt you anymore.”

Jared pulls back, knows he must look insane, he feels insane.

“I don’t wanna see that. I don’t wanna know what’s _under--_ what’s on your _neck--_ ” Jared chokes, and he’s crying, hasn’t cried since he found out his daddy got shot, was bleeding out over in Iran, had to be airlifted home.

Jensen drags him back in, swipes at his tears with all the clumsiness of a child. “Please don’t cry,” Jensen begs, hopeless. “Please. Please, Jared! I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats, pets Jared’s hair and rattles his chest.

After a while, Jared finds himself again, and Jensen presses another question to his collarbone, a promise.

“How long are you--how long are you gonna stay?” It’s quiet, in this no-space, the middle-earth, and Jared stiffens anyway.

“I’m not sure yet,” he says truthfully, “but I won’t be leavin’ you.”

-

It’s Jensen’s idea to sneak into the school, surprisingly enough.

He wants to get a move on before it’s hotter, and there’s more foot traffic around campus, but Jensen’s Mama wants more pictures of the two of them together, posed and happy.

Jared’s mother already has a few on the mantle, it was her that gave Mrs. Ackles the idea, actually.

Jared’s uncomfortably aware of Jensen’s dad, loitering in the background, halfway focused on an old basketball game, the other half staring Jared squarely in the chest.

Jared doesn’t want to antagonize the man anymore than his mere existence already does, but he takes Jensen by the hand anyway, boldest thing he’s ever done.

Jensen’s eyes go wide, all the color leached from his face, but he doesn’t try to take his hand back. He doesn’t move his _hand._

His eyes dart from Father, to Matt, to Mother behind the camera, and Mrs. Ackles makes a crooning sound, all nostalgia, while Matt grins broadly and worms his way between the two of them, arms slung over both shoulders.

“Ah, take a picture of me with the lovebirds,” Matt says, singsong quality of his voice. He squeezes Jared’s shoulder, briefly, leans down to knock foreheads with Jensen.

Jensen colors prettily under the attention, blinks up into his Uncle’s eyes, an inside joke.

Mrs. Ackles makes an aggrieved sound, pokes her brother in the chest. “Leave ‘em be, Matty.” To them, “Two more, boys, then you can make a break for it, I promise.”

Jared makes a great show of tugging Jensen in to his side, fits his tousled head right underneath his chin. Jensen sags with relief, tentatively winds both arms around Jared’s waist, and he thinks he could die happy, right here.

-

It’s still fairly early when they get to the school, and Jared drives Mrs. Ackles’ Elantra, on loan because he’s been so good to her Jensen.

Jensen ducks his head, gnaws his lower lip slick, and Jared has inappropriate fantasies about what they could get up to in Jensen’s family car.

Jensen buckles up, checks Jared’s buckles and points him in the direction of Union High. Jared keeps one eye on the road and the other on the way Jensen’s fiddling with his sleeves, the catch of color on his neck.

“Stop staring,” Jensen says, sucks that sin of a lip back into his mouth. “Can’t,” Jared says a bit stupidly. “Not when you look like that,” Jared adds, “when you look like that and you’re mine.”

Jared swerves minutely when Jensen releases the flesh on a gasp. “W--what?” he says, turns halfway in his seat to look at Jared more clearly.

“Mine,” Jared says, tense. “Exactly what you are. I been calling you mine since you first introduced yourself,” Jared says, hopes his heartbeat isn’t as loud as it is in his chest.

“I’m yours,” Jensen repeats, and Jared laughs, unfettered. Jensen’s body becomes one long, taut line at the sound, and Jared risks a glance to make sure Jensen’s alright.

“Jen? I’m serious. You gonna stay mine?”

Jensen shudders, once, full-bodied and violent. “Course,” he says, like it’s a fact. “You’re the only one I ever belonged to,” he says, and Jared speeds up to fifteen over and almost misses the parking lot entirely.

As it is, Jensen laughs when he whips it in, apologizes to Mrs. Ackles and the car, in that order.

Jensen leads the way, takes him to the back of the school where the trailers are located, and points to a shed that’s attached to a greenhouse.

“The shed and greenhouse stay unlocked during the day for viewing,” Jensen explains, and Jared nods fast. “Alright,” Jared says, “but I don’t think you’re into plants like that--” Jensen socks him in the shoulder, but he misses, hits his bicep instead.

“The greenhouse is connected to Mr. Keller’s Chem lab,” Jensen says, like Jared is an idiot. “You can get into the rest of the school that way.”

Jared salutes him, stands at attention, and Jensen reaches for his hand, much like the first time.

“Be quiet,” Jensen warns, and Jared’s about to ask why, but Jensen’s slender fingers tighten to the point of pain, so he keeps his mouth shut.

There’s some sort of sprinkler system in the greenhouse, and Jared basks in the cool flush of water before Jensen’s reminding him not to step on the rhododendrons, Jared, and then they’re into the cool damp of a classroom.

Jared’s skin prickles, uneasy.

“There’s a Carl Sagan book I want to read,” Jensen says, and Jared doesn’t get a chance to look around the room.

They’re wandering down an empty hallway, the tang of metal lockers in the air. It’s too warm and it smells a bit like someone has died.

Jensen still has a hold of his hand, and Jared laughs for the way Jensen’s body needs to strain forward to pull all of his weight.

“Come...on!” Jensen grunts, oblivious to the way Jared’s pulling back against his grip. He turns, finally, and Jared bursts into laughter at the pink flush of exertion.

“I’ll leave you in here,” Jensen threatens, mouth pursed. Jensen flings his hands in the air, and Jared follows the dip of collarbone with his eyes. He can still see the faint outline of his mouth on Jensen’s pale skin, and he knows, somewhere, there are bruises from fingertips.

Jared must look serious, deadly, because Jensen rushes to him, bows his spine almost backward to meet Jared’s eyes.

“Please. Lemme show you the book. We have,” Jensen begins, as he walks, “an astronomy class here, but it’s real small, b-basically intro. My mom and me are saving up so I can take a course at North Georgia.”

Jared squeezes Jensen’s hand in acknowledgement of his excitement, and thinks that he must love Jensen. That’s all this is.

“Isn’t it weird, though?” Jared says, and Jensen pauses, pained look on his face when he meets Jared’s gaze.

“W-what?” he says, and Jared’s quick to grab him by the hips, drag him close. “No, baby, not you,” he says, presses a kiss to Jensen’s waiting forehead, “I mean, being in a school when it’s. You know. Closed. Creeps me out.”

Jared can’t put his finger on it, but Jensen’s face smooths over and he grins, bright.

“Liminal space,” he says, waves his free hand around. He’s more _Jensen_ right now than Jared’s yet seen. “It’s like. When you’re in between the way something was, and the way it should be.”

Jared grunts. “That’s it. That’s exactly it,” he says, eyes Jensen carefully. Jensen’s blushing now, under the scrutiny, and he shrugs, already distracted.

“I like them best, anyway” Jensen adds, winding the conversation down. “They’re… ambiguous. They don’t really belong.” Jensen meets Jared’s eyes, beseeching. “You know what I mean? I fit there.”

Jared thinks he gets it, understands the basic idea, but Jensen ends up dragging him along toward a veritable collection of Sagan books, and Jared carries all ten out to the car for his boyfriend, makes Jensen hang onto the bottom of his shirt.

-

There are three phases.

There are three, where there should be four.

Phase three happens between 0600 to 2200. It’s 0800 when Jared opens his front door, blearily wiping sleep from his eyes. Phase one and two happen before Jared is conscious, and, God willing, he wishes he’d stayed that way.

They’re wearing all black, save pressed white dress shirts, and Jared has a momentary lapse of reality where he thinks he’s just been Neuralized.

The taller one speaks, looks him directly in the eyes. "I have been asked to inform you that your son has been reported dead in Riga, Latvia at 1300 GMT on August 17th, 2010. He was involved with quelling civil unrest within city lines. On the behalf of the Secretary of Defense, I extend to you and your family my deepest sympathy in your great loss".

“Mom,” Jared says, doesn’t break eye contact, and to the other man’s credit, he stands firm.

“Mom,” he tries again, can’t modulate his volume. The second man speaks, looks up at him. “We’ll wait inside, if you’d like us to repeat the news for your parents.”

“Mom!” Jared screams, harsh, brittle, he can’t breathe.

It’s his father who answers, trained and at the ready. His leg is mostly healed. He only requires his cane for long distances. They’ll be leaving soon.

“Jared! Son!” he yells, alert, as if he hasn’t just been woken from a heavy sleep. He follows the line of Jared’s shadow to the doorframe, to the men within it.

It’s like watching his father become Other, a monster wearing familiar skin.

Jared turns his head away.

“Gentlemen,” Gerald says, and Jared’s fingers creak over the doorknob, the wood. Splinters.

The second man opens his mouth, probably to repeat, but the first clears his throat. “He’s military,” the first says, like Jared’s not even there. Not even alive.

“When and where,” his father asks, and Jared doesn’t know how much he’s supposed to withstand, but his mother comes careening around the corner, in a panic, and his father catches her about the waist.

Jared watches her struggle for a second, dispassionate, and then she seems to take in everything, and her body just. Sags. He watches the fight leave her, and there’s a low groaning, like a beast, like an open sore, and the door is shutting and his father is still upright, weight balanced on both feet.

“You’re going to need to tell Jensen goodbye, son.” Jared’s father settles him down onto the floor, one hand ghosted over his forehead, and his throat shutters closed on its own.

Phase four is the aftermath.

-

He texts Jensen. Asks him to please meet tonight, it’s important.

Jensen’s response is immediate.

_Meadow?_

Jared nods where Jensen can’t see him.

-

He doesn’t bike there. His legs are sluggish and heavy and they almost lead him lost, but he can see Jensen by flashlight, blanket and small backpack, and Jared’s never been so grateful in all his life.

Jensen’s pale, body shivering, like he didn’t think to bring a jacket.

He tugs his sleeves down in agitation, and Jared sinks to the grass beside him, tugs fabric free from palms.

Jensen’s wrists are mottled, neapolitan, and Jared runs his thumbs down the line of them, the level of force and malice required to create this.

“I’ll take care of that after this,” Jared says softly, raises injuries to his mouth as if he can kiss them better. Jensen shakes his head, his body, turbulent.

“W-what’s wrong? I’m _fine,_ ” Jensen says emphatically, “what’s the matter? I--I’ve been waitin’, all day,” Jensen admits, jerks his sleeves back into place.

Jared needs the contact back, can’t meet Jensen’s eyes. Jared’s gonna take him home tonight, and take care of whatever needs handling tomorrow morning.

Jensen allows his hands to be held, cold and clammy as they are.

“Jeff’s been killed in action.”

The words are easier to say than he thought, but they hang, dead on arrival, and it’s Jensen who makes the sound, Jensen with his bruised little heart, too battered to function.

It sounds like dying, and Jared pulls Jensen close on instinct.

“No. No. No.” Jensen repeats, three times, and then he cuts himself off, cradles Jared’s face between abruptly warm flesh.

“I came. I brought things,” Jensen says, uncharacteristically resolved. He’s still firm, though, eyes darting between Jared and the water and this place.

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know when you were leaving, but Mr. P-Padalecki is looking better. And I. I didn’t want you to leave without having i-it.” Jared presses Jensen’s knuckles to his mouth.

“He wrote you,” Jensen flails, and Jared nods, allows his cheek to rest on bone. “That he did,” Jared replies, easy. This is right.

“He sent three more. We usually open them together, on Sundays.” Jared closes his eyes, stretches. “I didn’t finish writing mine yet.”

Jensen’s mouth is trembling and so are his hands, and Jared does the only thing he can do, the best he’s got, and covers Jensen’s mouth and body with his own.

Jared’s lines are harder and more defined from a life on the road, in the service, and Jensen crumbles beneath him.

“Can I get in you?” Jared asks, begs. Jensen’s already nodding, a sure thing, grass stains on scalp. The blanket is twisted underneath them.

“I w-wanted you to,” Jensen sighs, eyes luminous. “I want you in there,” he says, and Jared bites down on that lower lip, suckles it into his mouth until Jensen makes a contented sound, hands opening like wings.

Jared sits up and back for a second, takes in his boy, the twin splash of color on his cheeks, the needy arch of his spine.

Jared loves every bit of him, always will.

Jared fumbles with the bag, dumps everything out, lube, condoms, more than they could ever use in a night. Jared’s hands are shaking and Jensen shudders, shoves sweatpants down thighs so slender they ache with just Jared’s glance on them.

“Lemme see everything,” Jared asks, one shivering hand on Jensen’s right thigh, digs in a five-tipped point.

Jensen’s legs fall open, broken and seamless, and his shirt is next, and he’s so unashamed of his nudity that it’s not a thing Jared ever thought he’d see from Jensen.

His dick is hard, bobbing up against his stomach in a perfect line, kissed wet and violet. Jensen’s hands are trembling by his head, and he’s not made a move Jared hasn’t allowed.

“Jesus,” Jared breathes, uses both big palms to shove Jensen’s legs open even wider. “I’m gonna take you with me,” Jared says, and Jensen laughs, comes up like a gurgle.

“F-fuck me, first,” he begs, and his hands are straining for something. Jared obliges, shoves shorts and boxers off of one knee, rips his shirt in the process.

It’s cooler at night and Jensen’s got goosebumps in addition to freckles, and his dick is trembling, hips churning.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” Jared says needlessly, and Jensen laughs again, that strange, wet sound. “You can’t,” Jensen replies, “you wouldn’t,” he adds, and then he’s raising his legs to wrap around Jared’s hips so they finally meet, skin on skin.

Jared’s dick is blood-rushed and tilted, thicker and longer in every regard, and Jensen’s eyes light up in one part fear, three parts desire.

He allows his legs to drop, shattered masterpiece.

“Should I,” Jensen says, soft, “you want me to f-finger myself?” Jensen’s fingers twitch reflexively, and Jared shakes his head, no. He wants that.

Lube’s cold and it spills on his thighs and on the grass but he smears the lion’s share on Jensen’s twitching hole, and presses to the first knuckle.

Jensen makes a hungry little sound, like a sigh, and pumps his hips down, begs for a little more. “T-two, please,” Jensen asks, “P-please. I’m gonna come, I’m gonna c-come all over your leg an-and my b-belly,” Jensen says, and Jared growls, deep in his throat.

“God, I wanna see that. Wanna see you come around my fingers,” Jared whispers, and Jensen makes a shocked little sound, churns his hips up and away.

Jared shivers, dumps more lube between the two of them and works in that second finger way sooner than he’d like.

“Jensen,” he says, and Jensen moans, sucks in his air.

“C-can you kiss me,” Jensen asks, so vulnerable in his mouth that Jared’s not surprised to find his cheeks wet when he scrambles upwards to obey.

“God. I love you. Love every piece of you,” Jared says, and Jensen’s wet cheeks drag against his stubble.

“Okay,” Jensen says, “love you, too,” and Jared twists his fingers, difficult from this angle, and Jensen’s eyes fly wide, cock jerking between stomachs.

Jared’s desperate now, coils one more finger in Jensen’s wet dip of a hole, and it slides right in, so graceful it’s downright wrong, obscene.

Jensen’s still crying, little hitched breaths, and Jared really is gonna take him. This is nothing he can leave behind.

Jared’s dick is merciless, jerking in almost-seizure at how close Jensen’s heat is. Jared’s fingers pop free with an audible slurp, and Jensen whines for them, unimpeded.

“Come back, come back, please, Jared,” Jensen asks, and Jared takes ahold of Jensen’s hips with one hand, feeds slow inch after inch with the other.

Jensen’s hole spreads beautifully, but Jared can barely watch it between the splay of Jensen’s neck in the low light, the whole tilt of his spine when it raises to take the rest of Jared’s dick.

“O-oh my God,” Jensen cries, and Jared releases the stranglehold he’s got on the last three inches, and grinds deep.

Jensen’s dick quivers, looks like it’s dying, and Jared passes his hand just over top, no contact, brush of air, and Jensen comes, startles Jared into moaning, loud and long.

Jensen comes like he’s gonna pass out, body flailing, fucking himself up, down, sideways on Jared’s dick, even if he’s barely cognizant. “P-please,” Jensen sighs, voice gone, body limp.

“You still gonna fuck me?” he asks, eyes splintered shut, and Jared does, lifts amenable legs into the air, over his shoulders, plows in to the hilt, takes Jensen’s chin in between index and thumb and _sucks_ at his mouth.

Jensen’s lax, sighing _iloveyou_ into every messy kiss, sticky with spit.

Jared rubs Jensen’s come into his belly, pauses to lean down and kiss Jensen’s sternum, his neck that should’ve never been touched.

Jensen’s legs twitch, aftershocks, and he mewls beautifully when Jared hits that place deep within.

Jared’s thrusts sink offbeat, and Jensen’s making punched out sounds, clutching at Jared’s forearms with dull nails, shoved up onto grass with every violent snap of Jared’s hips.

He pulls out as he comes, shoots up Jensen’s chest, catches him on the mouth and the chin before he aims lower.

Jensen’s licking it off before Jared’s eyes have the chance to settle, face flushed with exertion.

Jared looks at his wrists, exposed, and hides the frisson of anger it unleashes.

Jensen’s neck flops to the side, and Jared follows the inhale-exhale of his ribcage, smears his come in right alongside Jensen’s, feeds the excess to him with an outstretched thumb.

Jensen’s little pink tongue curves pretty around it, and Jared sinks to his haunches, still settled in between Jensen’s legs, one hand heavily draped over his belly.

“If they send him home with his map,” Jared says, wonderingly, “I won’t need anymore flags. I don’t have any flags for him.”

Jared’s nails bite into the unmarked portion of Jensen’s flesh, and Jensen doesn’t flinch, sits upright, hole puffy and sore, drags Jared’s body into his, even though it’s a tight fit and Jensen is straining to contain them both.

“You’re gonna have to make new ones, then,” Jensen croons, nonsense against Jared’s head as they sit, and Jensen doesn’t falter, not once.

-

It’s three in the morning before they pack up, Jared tucks an almost sleeping Jensen back into his clothes, laces his shoes, probably tighter than is needed.

Jensen rode his bike, so Jared puts it upright, settles Jensen on the handlebars and pedals, full tilt, all the way to Jensen’s house.

Jensen’s still mostly asleep when Jared kisses him goodbye, pretends he hasn’t gotten snot all over Jensen’s clothes, semen in his skin.

“Love you,” Jared breathes, stupid, like Jensen makes him, and Jensen wakes up, eyes hung dark in his face.

“I love you, too,” he says, clearly, and Jared watches the door click closed.

-

He can’t sleep that night.

Doesn’t sleep well, or very much, and he’s unsurprised that it’s 0900 when he finally rolls over.

His house is silent as a tomb, and he knows they’re going to want to see him soon, open Jeff’s last letters and _cry._

Jared can’t cry.

The only thing he wants to do is let Jensen know that he’s not leaving, even if Jensen had come so prepared for that eventuality.

He should’ve reminded him again, before he left last night.

Jared comes up on the house out of breath, air pounding in his lungs. Everything’s loud.

There’s a crash, sounds like plates, like glass, and Jared’s bike falls to its death as he takes the front porch steps, three at a time.

Screaming.

“How could you! How COULD YOU?” More smashing, yells. Mrs. Ackles is screaming so loudly, Jared knows she won’t have a voice left when it’s all said and done.

“You were su--” she hiccups, through what Jared can hear are tears. “You were supposed to help him! You said you came to help my baby! My _baby_ \--”

Jared’s fist bangs of its own free will, heavy thudthudthud against wood.

Another crash, a man’s yell.

“I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill you, you son of a bitch!” This is a man’s voice, Jensen’s father, maybe? “You--you sick fucking piece of goddamn--” A yelp interrupts, louder than the last.

Jared’s heart is gonna beat out of his chest. He’s gonna die right here, on this porch.

Something heavy falls, this time, and Jared can hear Mrs. Ackles, plain as day. _“My baby. What did you do to my baby?”_

Jared’s knuckles are bleeding now, and _finally_ someone is fiddling with the door, jerking it open and casting the contents into light.

The house is ruined, everything that ever mattered. Photos scattered. Jared can see the ones of he and Jensen, Jensen’s arms tangled around his waist. Phantom press of Jensen’s skin.

“Ma’am,” he says, tongue clumsy. “Mrs. Ackles.” Mrs. Ackles is holding something in her hand, fiddles with it, much like her son does when he’s nervous.

Jared leans in to take a good look at it, but Mrs. Ackles is covered in red from fingernails to elbows, and, at a closer glance, so is what he discovers is an envelope.

Mrs. Ackles meets his eyes, but she’s real far away; her mouth carries on.

“Jared,” she says, and Jared can hear yelling, Matt and Jensen’s dad, and the distinct sound of violence.

Matt’s crying. “I never meant--Jesus, Alan, you gotta _believe_ me! It’s not how you think!” Matt pauses for air, grunt of distress. “I loved him! I loved him, I loved him--”

Jared can’t follow anything, and he grabs at Mrs. Ackles’ arm, ignores all the blood. It’s smeared on her face, there’s even some on her hair and Jared can’t seem to look away.

“Mrs. Ackles! Where’s Jensen?!”

She smiles at the floorboards, those are painted in claret, too. “Jensen? Well, he left you this letter,” she says, offers the thin slice of paper to Jared, wrist fluttering.

Jared takes it, watches her turn away, stride back into her house.

He leaves the door open, considers grabbing his bike but leaves it, kicks up dirt and debris as he pounds his way there, lungs all stuck in his mouth, blood on his hands.

It still takes him fifteen minutes, his stamina pushed to the brim. It’s so early. Jensen liked it best at night.

“Jensen! Jensen! Jensen!” His words don’t carry. He’s out of breath.

He twists in a full circle, and he’s almost toppled down to the earth when he sees him, knees tucked to his chest, facing that small pond that’s barely any water at all.

Jared makes a sound he’s never heard before, not even for Jeff, and drops down next to Jensen, envelope clutched in his left palm.

“Jesus. Jesus, you scared me,” Jared says, eyes overflowing. “What’s happening back at your house? I think. I think your dad’s gonna kill your Uncle Matt,” he tries, and Jensen doesn’t look at him, doesn’t glance in his direction at all.

“And there’s--Jesus, Jensen, there’s so much fucking blood,” Jared says, softer, and Jensen tips his neck back to catch the sun.

“Why’d you write me this letter--Jensen, I told you we were leaving together. I’m gonna--I was gonna figure out how to get myself emancipated--fuck, Jensen, will you fucking _look_ at me?”

Jensen turns to face him, torso twisted. He’s wearing a white t-shirt, looks a size too small.

“How long are you gonna stay?” he asks, lips curving slowly, mouth soft.

Jared looks at him again, careful, follows the pale line of his arm down to where his palm is braced in the grass. He’s playing with a handful, even as he looks up at Jared.

His wrists are clean.

Jared sighs, deep and untroubled.

 

 


End file.
